


Corsets and other Paraphernalia

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossdressing for Crime, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: There's a book Locke wants from a house formerly owned by a bondsmage. The acquiring of said books involves some costumes, and Jean is very distracted.





	Corsets and other Paraphernalia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide!  
> This is a tropey mess, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Warning: very flimsy plot

Jean balanced his bag of goodies precariously on his elbow, and pressed the last of his shekels into the hands of the tradeswoman. With the money, he sent along a shy smile, lovely enough to entice, but reticent enough that it seemed sincere instead of obnoxious — he had perfected the low stake con years ago, and unlike Locke, he never had the desire to go to the very edges of his own abilities every time he used them.

The tradeswoman would never know she had sold him almost triple the goods his money would usually buy, just from the way he had acted— she’d feel good about doing something for a good-looking man who seemed interested in her, and best of all, should she run across Jean’s business again, she would only remember him with careful prompting. And if he did prompt her, she would think of him in flattering terms, since he had kept her in mind from their brief interaction.

Looking back at the stall, he tripped on thin air, right into the arms of an old gentleman and spilled the oranges at the top of his bag onto the street. Smiling at yet another willing escape route that did not yet know its purpose, he thanked him profusely when he helped pick up the oranges. Daily errants done, he finally left the marketplace after a cursory look to check again if anyone was following him. Nobody would; Locke and him had arrived in the capital city of Emberlain not too long ago and laid low in the spare rooms of an unobtrusive old maid, but long-trained habits were hard to break.

Outside the immediate market area, he dropped an orange into the grubby hands of the dirty kid lingering outside his preferred doorway— another tribute for goodwill. Jean hadn’t yet cared enough if he was a street kid, or belonged to one of the poor households—he did look starved, but not in the desperate way, only in the way that all growing boys looked starved.

Then, he circled the block a few times. The room Locke and him had rented was accessible through a wooden staircase through an encircled yard of the old, once majestic stone houses, which housed mostly old merchants nowadays. Locke and him had sublet from a lovely lady called Griselda Fehrwight, who was only mostly blind and very sprightly for a woman of her advanced age, and to arrive at their room, he had to traverse the entirety of her small apartment, and then carefully balance up a rickety old ladder who had seen better days and was holding together with hope and prayers. 

Griselda Fehrwight thought them one of her nephews—and Locke’s next con would probably hinge on her introducing them as her merchant relatives. Jean was carrying some things for him, but as of yet, Locke was very tightlipped about their plan. Probably it was both ridiculous in goal and execution.

Jean deposited the smaller bag hiding beneath the oranges next to their landlady’s entrance, where he had taken the money to buy his own groceries from. He did not feel the least bit bad about his small theft, because this way she had gotten her groceries delivered with no mark-up, and also Jean had his goods — and nobody had to pay a courier. The only one to loose out on this arrangement was the courier, and he probably fleeced the lady for all that she was worth, too.

Halfway up the ladder, to distract himself from the precarious situation he was in, he shouted for Locke.

"I’ve gotten everything you wanted," he added, slowly crawling through the trapdoor into the attic room that suited their purposes most admirably.

"Good," Locke said from behind the paper room divider. "Perfect, even. I need some of the calendula salve." And then a halfnaked woman came out from behind the printed sheets, and Jean dropped the bag on the floor.

The first he saw was the red corset, hard to miss in that colour. Even while he was averting his eyes, he realised that the woman was wearing her hair short — and Locke’s face to boot. And yes, that was definitely a cock half-hidden behind the thin undershirt.

Jean blinked. He swallowed his first reaction, and then lowered the bag he had carried above his head on the ladder to hide his second reaction.

Then, he cleared his throat. "I didn’t think that would work so well."

"What, you didn’t think I’d make a pretty woman?" Locke said, flickered his eyelashes in a quite disturbing fashion and put one hand against his hip.

The white, almost translucent shift shifted to the side, and flashed Jean. He was too inundated with Locke’s various exploits to show any of his reaction to his friend, who’d use it only for ill. "You are very pretty," Jean said, dryly. "Was that what you wanted to hear?"

Locke rolled his eyes, and snapped back into a more natural pose. It didn’t help with the distraction of Locke in a shift, a feminine, embroidered shift that emphasised his lean stature, his collarbones, his waist— Jean caught himself watching the edge of the shift in anticipation, wondering with every movement if Locke would be revealed once again a man.

Jean looked up at the ceiling and prayed for strength. "Just because you look good, doesn’t mean this is going to go fine," he said. "Why do you think they’ll just give the house to us—it’s ridiculous. Nobody ever gets anything for free. We should try casing the joint again, see if there’s another entry to the property— the well, maybe? The canalisation, possibly?"

"Well," Locke said, and bent over to tie his laces, or whatever it was he did. "We aren’t getting it for free, after all, the houses cost upkeep. The city will do well to be rid of it—the only value they’d have from sitting there without occupants will be as a warning to their enemies. No, the difficulty won’t be in convincing them to give it up for the symbolic price of a wormy apple, it will be difficult enough to pass as a local couple, what with your atrocious accent."

"My accent isn’t atrocious," Jean complained, but Locke continued despite the interruption.

"We should aim for the delicate balance of down-on-their-luck merchants—you should be quite familiar with that, Jean, no offence— there’s nothing much we can do about our lack of funds, but an introduction by Madame Fehrwight should do wonders for our reputation."

"I didn’t know the Madame was of any special note," Jean said. "—she’s certainly poor enough to be almost destitute."

Locke shook his head. "She was a postal mistress. Her filing skills are legendary—didn’t you ever wonder where she went on Saturdays?"

"I’d assumed the temple, honestly."

Locke looked at him, conveying his disdain towards that assumption. 

"Lots of people go to the temple on Saturdays," Jean felt compelled to protest.

"She made herself indispensable," Locke continued. "Much like Father Chains was indispensable — nobody with her skillset exists. So she returns each Saturday to explain things, gossip, and drink tea, and then she continues to enjoy her life the rest of the week. An excellent life for an old maid, wouldn’t you say?"

"I dunno," Jean said. "If it was me, I’d rather go out with a bang, sitting on all the riches of the world."

Locke perked up. "Speaking of which—" he went for the vanity, where a small coffer of about the size of Jean’s hand sat. Locke pulled out a pearl jewellery set — [tk] pearls, dark and glistening in the low candle light. 

"Where did you get those?" Jean asked. This wasn’t the kind of quality present at just any street vendor.

"The governor’s mansion," Locke answered flippantly. 

Jean eyed them. "They don’t look quite that expensive." He didn’t say that he wished Locke wouldn’t harry of on his own, even though he did—the last time Locke had tried breaking into the villas of the Bondsmagi, he triggered a trap and managed to get the entire city guard on his tails, much of the reason he was now mostly secreted away in the attic, going stir-crazy.

"A gift to his maid," Locke said. "She couldn’t wear it anywhere in any case, I don’t know what he thought when gifting her such rarities—she’s just as well going to appreciate the fake baubles I left her, and he’s not going to notice the discrepancy if she’s wearing them."

"—that seems unnecessarily callous," Jean commented. "She could have retired on the sale of those earrings."

"Eh," Locke said. "She’s naive and stupid, and would have been conned by the pawnbroker. Now it’s going for a good cause, not just the enrichment of people preying on the poor."

"You mean, your own enrichment?" Jean said, amused.

"This sounds like you’re judging me, my dear friend." Locke looked at him through the mirror, as he fixed the jewels to his outfit. 

"Judging you?" Jean raised both of his eyebrows. "Never."

Locke looked radiant in the mirror. Something about the way he moved his body became more deliberate, more careful, somehow languish. Jean swallowed.

"So," he said instead of examining his reactions more deeply, or voicing any sort of disapproval. "The plan— merchant couple that spent the last few years in Camorr?" He doubted they’d get into the opera house, really, it being the most intensely secured building of the city aside from the parliament building to which it was adjacent, and the old villas of the bondsmagi, in which they wanted to be. And just because Locke knew with his sense of trouble, probably, that the diary of Pel Acanthus was contained within.

"You are reading my mind, Jean Tannen," said Locke.

This did not worry Jean at all.

 

"This seems too easy," Jean said on the way to the opera, aware that he might be cursing himself. He couldn’t help it— the introduction by Mdme. to all of the relevant people while she wasn’t aware she was doing any introducing had gone swimmingly, and now Locke and he were invited to the opera on someone else’s dime.

"The thing about tempting fate is, I’d rather wish you would not." 

Locke held a fan daintily between his fingers. The gesture was incongruous with what he knew of Locke, but not at all with how he looked right now. The red hue on his lips pronounced the mischievous smile in a way that made it look both innocent and like he was hiding something, and it did strange things to Jean’s insides. As did every look that was send their way—not that it seemed like anyone was paying undue attention— Jean still felt like he had to step in front of Locke to hide him from the rest of the world.

"Relax," Locke murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "For a better picture you should stare less like a serial killer, it’s a bit much even if you want to be the protective boyfriend."

"Fiancé," Jean corrected, a bit too loud, but that only worked in their favour, especially since Locke managed to time an indulgent smile perfectly. It managed to relax Jean a bit, because the smile was a mirror copy of Father Chains indulgent smile—and it had bode ill things in Jean’s favour, as it did now.

"It’s been quite the while since I had such pretty associations accompanying me to the opera," Madame Fehrwight said too loudly, and smiled.

Jean helped her up the steps of the theatre without comment, and watched as she straightened Locke’s dress which had slightly hitched up in the back. "You look lovely, my dear. Let me introduce you to little Lena? You are going to like her. She’s just as driven as you."

"What did you do to her," Jean mouthed at Locke. He had not been present through all of Locke’s discussion’s with her, but enough to know that Locke was doted upon by the woman—and it couldn’t all have been due to Jean’s daily courier run’s for fresh food, especially since he did not get the same recognition, even though it was him who shared her name, this time around.

There was no explanation forthcoming from Locke, and so Jean dedicated his attention towards the building in front of him. 

The opera house of Emberlain was constructed in the old style of building —a sphere, looking like a really big, glowing dragon egg, sat in the middle of the plaza. The carriages would arrive a small distance off, conveniently so that everyone could see who was attending the spectacle today. Madame Fehrwight had directed their chariot further ahead than most, due to the weakness in her knees— but that only managed to put them into the limelight more. The opera house was eerily glowing with the same residue that lightened the towers of Camorr, and the greenish light only made Jean feel more homesick. Instead of expressing that, he directed a wide, sweeping look across the usual attendees. 

He recognised a few of the emblems decorating the carriages, due to his forages into the underbelly of Emberlain, and Locke’s own adventures in forging foreign noble lineages— but his head kept on turning back to Locke, who was strutting forward on truly insensible heels. Jean couldn’t get over the dress. He had known Locke in plenty costumes, some of them more outrageous than a simple dress-up in women’s clothes, but something about the way his hips jutted out, the way his waist was so very slim, probably slim enough that Jean could envelop the entire width with his two hands, or at least dressed that it looked like it was possible, either way, it was utterly distracting.

Even more distracting than finding the relevant government officials to sweet talk into selling the property on name alone. Jean desperately searched for a harmless conversational topic. "Did you… loose weight recently?" Jean asked, voice breaking slightly, and managing to pass the harmless topic by miles.

Locke, who was prepared in all of life’s many situation, answered with a puzzled frown, "I don’t think so?" A quick hand-gesture conveyed the words that Jean was really far off his game.

"You look very thin." Jean explained, but that was not quite it, either.

Locke did not suddenly develop breasts, Jean was reasonably certain about that, but with Locke one never knew for certain, and that definitely looked like breasts. "How are you doing that," Jean said, and couldn’t find words for what he was asking and so he mimed the hourglass, hoping that Locke would not mock him endlessly.

Locke looked outraged. "We’re in public!" he hissed. "Are you on drugs?"

An older gentleman, walking alone with a stick twirling in his hand, in about the same get-up as Jean himself, meaning rich merchant, or at least a landowner of some renown, chuckled. "Aww, young love. Certainly something," he winked at Jean and pointed his stick at Locke’s rear. Jean looked at him, slightly scandalised, but Madame Fehrwight greeted him like an old friend, and introduced them as her relation looking to buy a home in the suburbs. She couldn’t have timed it better if they had trained her, and for all Jean knew, Locke had done so during the hours he spent at the market collecting information.

While Madame Fehrwight entertained the man, Locke came closer, to almost mould himself onto Jean’s arm. Meant to convey intimacy, probably, it was devastating. Jean could smell the flowery perfume, and he could look right down Locke’s neckline, and it was fake, he knew it was fake, but it didn’t keep it from being mesmerising, and mesmerised he was. "What is wrong with you," Locke whispered. 

"Uh, nothing," Jean straightened, fixed his cravat that matched the exact shade of Locke’s eyes, and thought about untold riches, and the traps the Bondsmagi had left behind in their villa in Emberlain. He thought of magical traps and decapitation, and it helped, a little.

On their way to the seats, they were greeted by most people — Madame Fehrwight, one of the deciding members of Emberlain’s post sorting service, was apparently something of a local celebrity. Not exactly someone rich in funds, but rich in connections. Locke had probably known that before he first used the alias of Lukas Fehrwight back in Camorr.

The glitter and pomp from all the people attending this performance of the struggle of Lady Astrifiammante and her strife about marrying her daughter off, was not quite able to hold a candle to the actual interior of the opera house, but the effort to try, was commendable. All and sundry was out to attend this performance — and Jean should have been on the look-out for marks, and if not people to con, then people to know in case a con went wrong. Even so, with an important reason in the back of his mind, as soon as the curtain drifted open and the lights dimmed, Jean sank back into his comfortable seat, and slipped into a trancelike state on the cusp of sleep. It was the mass of people, he would defend himself later, the lack of air; but it was Locke’s hand on his knee and the imposing music in the background. Dreamlike circumstances that led him to believe he was in a dream himself.

At intermission, Locke’s hand crept up to the crook of his arm, and Jean jolted upwards. The music and the glittering costumes on stage had lulled him further into trance, and at first he could not place the pretty face in front of him. The hand in the bend of his arm felt dainty, careful—not at all like it belonged to his friend who pulled of heists the Crooked Warden could only dream of.The light slowly turned up again, and Jean could see Locke more clearly in the face that so looked like him, while it absolutely didn’t resemble him at all. The edges of his collar bones jutted out, and Jean could not help but follow the small dots speckled on his shoulders. 

"It wouldn’t do to underestimate them." Locke said, and it came through like a through filled haze. Jean followed his line of sight, over to the grand box—the one reserved for the ruling elite, for the Mayor and her husband. It looked empty, but that was the privacy screens surrounding that particular box. It didn’t serve the city to make an attempt for assassination that easy.

"That’s a different tune from you," Jean said, and Locke looked up and curled his smile just so. His mouth was painted scarlet, giving the edges of his mouth a very wicked curve — as if his normal smile wasn’t devastating enough. Jean cleared his throat. "Don’t you think?"

"I think great things come to those that want them," Locke said, still that devastating smile playing around his lips. "And I really, really want that villa. It is my book of spells. I deserve to have it back, and since nobody else is using it at the moment…"

Jean rolled his eyes. "So now what? Meet-cute with the Mayor?"

"You know what the council of Emberlain really wants to do with this almost socialist plan of theirs?" Locke said in a low tone. His warm breath brushed right past Jean’s ear and made his hair stand up. "They want to provoke Karthain, and they’re doing it through the only thing that hurts them the most— their ego. And to present the bondsmagi as the ridiculous people that they are, they will give the houses to the people with the sympathies on their side: young, professional couples. And I want one of those houses. I want to provoke my own attack on them—I want them to remember Locke Lamora as someone to fear." Locke led them toward a quiet alcove hidden next to a "No entrance"-sign. 

"Don’t the bondsmagi already remember you?" Jean asked, filled with trepidation. "We don’t have a way of protecting ourselves from their wrath, since you still— don’t exactly remember magic."

"See, that’s where you’re wrong." Locke leaned back, still talking in that quiet voice of his, the words not carrying further than Jean’s ears. "Because I know something about bondsmagi, and they don’t think anyone will ever be so audacious as to take rightful property from the bondsmages and distribute it to someone else—and there will be a quintessential weakness in that. Also, we’re not going to stay in Emberlain long enough so that their curses will get back at us."

"You don’t think you will find research material? You just want your diary— in, out, quick at houses?" Jean asked, his eyebrows raised. "I’d assume they’d have cleared out all contraband before they cleaned out, and even then, a simple robbery would probably do. We wouldn’t even have had to go full on identity theft."

"It’s nothing they left inside the house," Locke said. "It’s the houses themselves. They are warded to exclude everyone not invited by the owner."

"And what, stealing the deed was a step too much? Instead you want to, what, parade around the town until they gift you one? Great plan. Up there with robbing the Duchess’s diamonds while they were still attached to her."

"It worked, didn’t it?" Locke said, stubbornly.

"What was it that Father Chains used to say, `Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should´— I think that applies here."

Locke turned around to the small, tarnished mirror and was quiet. Was he about to reveal something else important about those houses, or was he going to prevaricate again like he had the last couple of times Jean had brought this up? Finally, he said, "I want to." 

Jean looked at him, disregarding the get up — even through the corset (and the added padding that appeared on both his hips and his breast) he still looked like he had been starved recently. There was something he wasn’t telling Jean.

"Sure," Jean said, and let it go. "Now—How are we going to meet the Mayor?"

"Lukas!" yelled Madame Fehrwight across the opera floor, right on cue. It was quite unseemly, but she as an old crone could do it without anyone raising an eyebrow. Locke smirked. "Go on," he said. His tone was soft, feminine, and yet it carried further than the whispers he had spoken with before. "Your godmother is calling you."

And Jean straightened, offered his arm to Locke and walked over to their landlady without debating the point, in the interest of keeping the embarrassment low for all of them.

Madame Fehrwight was holding court — Jean couldn’t describe it differently — with several young people half her age, and introduced him as her cousin Lukas Fehrwight and his lovely fiancée from Camorr called Charlotte Tannen. This prompted of course a question from one of them, "Are you really from Camorr?"

Jean automatically looked at Locke, who side-eyed Madame Fehrwight rather impressively, and then answered with a coy, "No, sir, I’ve just lived in Camorr for all of my formative years. I met my dear Lukas there, and he prompted me to return." The sweet smile with which he ended that statement pierced through Jean like a sledgehammer — it was Sabetha’s smile, and like hers, it looked like it promised untold pleasures, but Jean knew it would end in pain.

The young man mustered Jean from top to bottom, and then obviously dismissed him as someone irrelevant, and continued to address Locke, "And how have you been finding Emberlain?"

Locke laughed a pearl-like laugh, and told him some platitudes about the local architecture, which the boy soaked up like a sponge. The discussion went toward the fabrics Emberlain was famous for producing, and of which Locke’s dress was made. And then, suddenly, when Locke said something about Jean procuring the garments, the conversation suddenly started to include him.

"We are looking for a house to buy," he added to Locke’s explanation of the business endeaveurs. "We thought we should buy in Camorr, because of the recent downsizing—new businesses don’t need to pay property taxes, but we’d really like to establish ourselves somewhere closer to home."

As if on cue, one of the other men said, "Have you heard about this great opportunity expanding on the old bondsmagi territory? They’re selling the old villas— I would buy one, but my mother wants me closer to home, and I’d have to go searching for a wife besides."

"Who is they?" Jean asked. "Would I have to personally interact with a bondsmage?"

The circle grimaced collectively.

"Gods, no." the man replied. "I’d have never thought about it if it would mean interacting with one of _them_."

"So your mother wants you close, hmm?" another said to him, an undercurrent of teasing in his tone and demeanour. 

"Nobody would have you, if you asked," the only other woman beside Madame Fehrwight told him frankly. 

She had the sharp smile of a predator down pat, but before they could descend into a mutual barrage of insults, Jean asked, "So, how do you show interest in the property? Just show up there?"

"Gods, no—they have quite intricate thieves wards, but there’s a workaround if the actual deed is written out to you—because then you’re the new owner, magically speaking, and the wards have to let you in. It’s a risky business, and you have to pay a magician to remove the wards for you, which is the actual expense that house is going for—and the potential retribution of the bondsmages, but those haven’t stepped onto Emberlain in some thirty years now, so chances aren’t bad."

"My darling nephew," Madame Fehrwight said. "You did not tell me you were looking to get out of my house! I shall introduce you to my dear friend Lena immediately!" And then she shuffled them over to another old lady holding court, this one among people her own age, mostly. The two of them greeted each other like old friends, and then Madame Fehrwight introduced Jean, a particular emphasis on his growing acumen as a businessman.

The titular Lena mustered him, and then told him, "I hope you’ll do your Aunt proud—she’s a highly valued member of this city. Now, Mr. Fehrwight, I heard you are looking for a new family home? Let’s talk about the particulars."

With a bit finagling from Locke, she’d agreed that they would be able to look at the property tomorrow without anyone accompanying them, and that she’d hand them the key over personally. 

Soon after, they were on their wait out of the opera house again, collecting their coats in the far off coatroom—most of the other guest had gone on to attend the latter half of the play, but Madame Fehrwight had professed the need for some quiet because of a headache, and as dutiful relations they would return to her home with her (also, they had come in the same carriage) "That was quite the thing," Locke said, and smiled his satisfied smile. Nothing at all reminded Jean of Sabetha, and he was very relieved about it, and couldn’t help but smile back. He put the role with the deed of his sweet sweet home into the depths of his dress. Then, he removed a tissue from his bosom, and wiped the champagne from his breasts. The tissue turned a powdery beige, and the breasts turned into the more usual sized torso — Jean stared impressed at the transformation. It had started to look normal. 

"My eyes are up here, buddy," Locke said drily.

"It’s just—" Jean began to defend himself, and then dropped the matter. A couple of seconds later, regretting giving up, he started up again, "Do you have to play with my feelings like that, or are you just naturally a shithead?"

"I’m just naturally a shithead," Locke replied promptly. Then, he paused. An undecipherable look crossed his face, and he echoed Jean’s words, "Feelings?"

Jean studied the fascinating spider web right next to the mirror of the wardrobe. Locke grabbed him by the ears, and twisted him around so they were facing each other again. "What about—"

"—what about Sabetha, huh?" Jean interrupted him angrily. "It’s not like I could ever compete with your long lost lady love."

There’s another pause. "Harsh," Locke said finally. He let go of Jean’s ears. Instead of completely removing his hands, he slid them further down. They were cool to the touch, and Jean shuddered. Locke stepped closer.

"You can’t believe it was ever even a contest," Locke said, quietly and urgently. "I came to your bed every night! I thought you weren’t into guys! Is this because I’m wearing a dress?"

Jean couldn’t help but snort. "You talked about her constantly!"

"You went on dates! I pined from afar! Who do you think looked more open to a relationship!"

"Like I wanted to come second fiddle to Sabetha? Special, exalting Sabetha? Sabetha, who could do no wrong, even though she left—" 

Locke used his full body as leverage, and pulled him closer. Unprepared, their mouths met. It was more a continuation of their argument at first, uncomfortable, putting all truths at the forefront like that, Locke’s hands like a vice around his neck.

But Locke softened, let go—and Jean could not let that happen. He used the new space to get new leverage, so that they could meet again. Their second kiss was much more of a revelation, really— Locke was soft even while he was demanding, generous with his tongue and the noises of appreciation; and this was all the more risqué because it happened in a cloak room, to which everyone had access.

"What are we doing?" Jean murmured between pressing more kisses to Locke’s lips— he didn’t want to stop, but knew they shouldn’t and was depending on Locke to figure out what they should do next.

"Kissing, you idiot," Locke said, and hiked himself up on the desk, keeping hold of Jean all the while. He used the new position to gently manoeuvre Jean towards his neck, which he did obligingly. "This can—ah!—only add credibility to—our account."

"It’s not respectable," Jean said, but did not even try to extradite himself out of the embrace. He breathed carefully, trying to keep the elation at bay, and grinned against Locke’s neck. There were all sorts of layers between them, the padding, the clothes— but he could feel Locke underneath all that, and he was getting hard.

"Are you turned on by this?" Jean said, delighted. He pressed closer into the V of Locke’s knees, and then had to swallow his words himself.

"So what if I am," Locke said, voice rough. His hands had warmed up, and one was pressed down the length of his back, searing hot like a brand. The other stroked over his hair, and suddenly Jean found it easier to breathe. He stroked his thumb along the tendon of Locke’s neck, and calmed down slightly.

For a while, neither of them moved.

"Madame Fehrwight is waiting," Locke said, finally. 

"Talking your way out of a pickle by mentioning my older female relations, why, you’re no virtuous woman at all."

Locke snorted. "Aside from the fact that I’m no woman at all? For all the world knows, you saw what you wanted and took it."

"Yes," Jean acceded, and smiled like the cat that got the canary. "Let’s go find a bed."

An accord reached, that was exactly what they did. The attending servants let them out of the opera early, no questions asked, not even a snide remark about the lipstick stains. The carriage ride with Madame Fehrwight was excruciating.

They tumbled up the stairs, and then did not care for the rest of the world for the night.

 

The next morning saw them at the mayor’s office, acquiring the key to the actual house without any trouble from the secretary, the plenty of other officials lingering around, or the mayor herself. It was eerie. Jean felt like looking back unsubtly to see if anyone was following him, something he hadn’t done since he passed on into Father Chains’ dubious guardianship. Locke, the key in hand, managed to traverse the same property line that had given him so much hardship days earlier without any trouble. He grinned up at Jean, still dressed in skirts, though these much more practical than the ones he had worn yesterday to the opera. It was a devastating smile, and Jean felt a pang in his heart.

Could they continue doing the things they had done yesterday? He was sure it was possible, if only Locke would want to try.

"Fine," he said out loud. "Your idea of subverting the wards was not half bad."

Locke did not tease him into admitting the idea had been brilliant— instead, they turned towards the house itself. Locke looked at it critically, and Jean tried to see what he saw, but he could only see an imposing merchant villa, several floors up and decorated with the latest architectural foibles. "It’s the bedroom," he said.

"—What is?" Jean asked, but Locke had taken a wild dash across the lawn.

Jean followed after him, into the extravagant interior, decked out in all its glory. Locke had disappeared up the wide, sprawling stairs. Jean hurried after.

When Jean appeared in the open bedroom, he could hear his heart pounding in his ears — and Locke had disappeared. The entire opulent room was full of furniture, but empty of people. For a moment, Jean’s heartbeat stopped.

Then, Locke appeared from behind the bed, holding a stack of books. "Found it," he said.

"Then let’s get out of here," Jean said. That was, of course, when he felt _something_ snapping—and Locke went, "Shit, the wards," and then, "Run!"

Jean started running.

 

He managed his way outside, impeded only slightly by all the clutter, pulled Locke the last few steps with him, and then they turned around to watch the villa go up in flames. The fire burned hot and blue.

"Thank the Crooked Warden," Jean said.

"Wow," Locke said.

"We should flee the country," Jean said.

"Probably," Locke said.

Locke looked down on the books in his arms, the only remnants of the villa in a good shape, and sighed deeply. "At least we have the diary," he said. The fire licked up higher, a solid column against the sky—probably visible from quite the distance.

"Let’s go."

And as one, they turned, and ran the rest of the way to Madame Fehrwight’s residence. They managed to evade the emergency response, and once arrived, managed to gather their things quickly. Their bags were packed already, owing to their long life as thieves.

Locke was antsy, as usual, and was outside waving for a carriage, and so Jean was the one who got stopped by Madame Fehrwight when he was carrying the last case of things down. "It’s a pleasure to see the Fehrwight name coming to such good use," she said and smiled at him. "I hope it has a better fate for you— the men of that name tend to end in prison or worse, you see."

Jean paused. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. 

"Thank you for the groceries, my dear. Couriers cost so much money, it was a great help to pay so little for so much," she continued. "Now, hurry after your husband!"

She giggled at his stupefied face. "Youths! Always forgetting that one may be blind, but can still hear perfectly well! Safe travels."

And Jean wanted to stay a moment longer; to find out what Madame Fehrwight knew, and how on earth Locke had acquired the name, and what kind of fate the other Fehrwight men went through, but he could also hear Locke calling. 

Awkwardly, he waved — and then went after Locke.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Corsets and Con Games (Devil in a Blue Dress Mix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835131) by [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis)




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